Who really stops at a red light when they're turning right?

I blame the pickles“I swear, Your Honour, if it weren’t for the pickles, I wouldn’t be here today.”Ah, yes. The almost-famous Pickles Defence. “Almost” because I never got a chance to use it. But it’s the truth, not just a lame excuse.There we were, my buddy and I, on our annual I-can’t-believe-it’s-three-days-before-Christmas shopping soiree. We always leave it to the last minute so we’ll be bursting with excitement and overflowing with inspiration.Things were going perfectly as we skipped merrily from store to store. Then one of us — and not me, just to narrow it down — started pondering the merits of buying one of those head-sized jars of dill pickles. How large are those containers? If you had a compressor and some hose, you could use one for a diving bell.Oh, the agonizing. Maybe he should get pickles. Maybe he shouldn’t. The back-and-forth continued as I, a registered driver residing in the Province of Saskatchewan, approached a major intersection. The store with the big pickles was just ahead and to my right. At that instant, the other individual in the car made up his mind. “Yes! Let’s stop in there for pickles!”I switched to the inside lane and quickly negotiated a right-hand turn. For the record, I’m not admitting that I did anything wrong. However, it was after dark and the car was suddenly blasted with paparazzi flashes. Oops. The red light camera.Naturally, my first thought was “They got somebody.”This was followed by “Wait a second, it’s not me, is it?”Then it was that helpless feeling of dread. Oh, for pickles’ sake. Did I just make a right turn at a red light without coming to a full stop? I’m not saying I did, by the way, but what if I had? Oh, the disappointment. Oh, the self-recrimination.In the real world, the right turn at the red light is one of those wiggle room things. No one who’s had their driver’s licence longer than six months actually comes to a full stop when there is no oncoming traffic and they’re turning right at a red light. What people actually do is check if a car is coming and proceed when it’s safe to do so. If they have to stop, they stop. If they don’t have to stop, they just kind of … proceed. It’s the same at PAUSE signs. That’s right, PAUSE signs. A PAUSE sign is a STOP sign that turns into a YIELD sign in your head when it is convenient — i.e. it’s 3 a.m. and nobody is around; you’re in a rush; the cops aren’t looking.This is real-world driving, not slavishly devoted, rule-bound, textbook, nerd driving.Driving, after all, is meant to be fun. That’s the problem with all these rule enforcement innovations. Many people thought it was fun to speed on the freeway. Sometimes they got caught, sometimes they didn’t. That was the game. Not so now with photo radar, which has turned carefree speeders into soulless robots cruelly forced to slow down until they pass the joy-killing camera box. Only then can they tromp it and make up for lost time.But back to the pickle I was in. I’m not sure what the fine was for turning right at a red light without stopping — in the $9 million dollar range, I’m guessing — but the thought of the ticket arriving any day in the mail was the opposite of fun.JANUARY. After a month went by, I allowed myself to think that my alleged, unproven, unacknowledged and purely theoretical moving violation was going to be overlooked. But one month wasn’t enough to be sure, particularly since part of it was over the holidays, and you know how much government workers slack off over the holidays. Just kidding! (Particularly if you work in the Ministry of Justice).FEBRUARY. The groundhog saw his shadow. Or maybe he didn’t see his shadow. Who cares? All I know is that I didn’t see a ticket in my mailbox.MARCH. It came in like a lamb and went out without a summons. By then, the crocuses of hope were poking through the snow. But too soon! I stamped them out.But now it’s April. I’m starting to think I got away with that thing that I’m not even close to admitting having done. Probably happens all the time. The camera lens is dirty. A cloud of exhaust obscures the (alleged!) offender’s licence plate. As we know from football fumbles, there has to be indisputable visual evidence.I’m sure that even people who are guilty get away with one from time to time. If that were me, I might start letting my guard down by now.And in my own defence — not that I need one — I would argue that not knowing is punishment enough. In fact, the possibility of an expensive ticket arriving any day has kept me honest.Now everyone behind me is thinking “What’s wrong with this guy, did he just get his licence?”No, he didn’t. He’s just driving by the book. The strict, fussy, boring, stupid book.Really, after almost four months of Waiting for Godot, that ticket would be a relief. No it wouldn’t.